Their expressions—hopeful yet anxious—made my appetite vanish. I pushed my chair back and stood.
“Thaddeus,” my mom called quickly. “Where are you going? Eat first; the food will get cold.”
“It’s fine,” I replied calmly. “I’m going to make some milk. The baby will cry if she’s hungry.”
In the nursery, I prepared the milk powder with practiced ease. As soon as the bottle touched my daughter’s lips, I heard it—a heavy thud outside. Then another. And another.
Three distinct sounds.
I glanced at the clock, counting the seconds, then walked out of the room.
The sight that greeted me was exactly as planned.
My parents lay sprawled on the floor, motionless and disheveled. Their breaths were shallow, faint.
Elysia was still conscious, slumped in her chair in the living room. Her eyes, wide with terror, locked onto mine. She struggled to move, to cry out, but the drug had robbed her of any strength, leaving her utterly silent.
I stepped closer, my expression unreadable.
“Good,” I said softly, crouching to meet her gaze. “Watch carefully. This is what retribution looks like.”
Her eyes filled with confusion and fear, darting between my parents and me.